Want
by LovelyMagickUnicorn
Summary: "You want to go downstairs and make her a nice, hearty, vegan breakfast and bring it up here for her to eat so she can have a notorious start to her, undoubtedly, busy day. You want to drive her down that theatre where she's been cast for the leading role in an off-Broadway show. But you can't because it's not your place."


AN: So this just popped into my head a while ago and I just wrote it in like... the past few hours. It's in second person narrative, which is something I've never really played around with. It's partially inspired by a comment found in a review to one of my other fics, but I'm too lazy right now to go and check.

I may edit this later on to give credit to whomever it was that gave me the idea for this.

* * *

You blink awake, immediately feeling a sense of warmth, one which comes not from your covers, but her. Her, lying in bed next to you with an arm draped over your midsection and half her face buried in your chest. Long, brown curls obscure the rest of her beautiful face. You slowly reach out and tuck the strands behind her ear.

It still surprises you; how well you fit together, how your bodies seem to mesh together as though you're two half of the same whole. It's perfect… or at least you like to think it is. You fight the urge to turn around check the clock on your nightstand.

Time.

Oh, how you wish you could stop it. Just freeze it. At least for a while.

But you can't, and sooner or later she'll be up and out of bed. And with her gone the rest of your day will turn to shit. You don't tell her that, of course. You can't. You want to be good for her, _have to_ be good for her. And you suppose that that's the problem; the difference between what you _have to_ do and what you _want_ to do.

You _want_ to go downstairs and make her a nice, hearty, vegan breakfast and bring it up here for her to eat so she can have a notorious start to her, undoubtedly, busy day. You _want_ to drive her to that theatre where she's been cast for the leading role in an off-Broadway show. You _want_ to be there in the front row on opening night.

But you can't because it's not your place.

You often wonder if it ever will be.

She begins to make subtle movements, groaning lightly, as she pushes herself away from you. Suddenly, you feel very cold. "What time is it?" she asks, eyes half-lidded. You reluctantly turn around, taking your eyes off her for the first time this morning.

"It's almost six thirty," you answer.

"Oh." She sounds surprised. You know that she shouldn't; it's always the same time. You'd think that she'd notice; it hurts to think that she hasn't. You have, and yet you continue to turn around to check. "I should go." Of course she does.

You hear her movements as she tosses her legs over the edge of the bed and begins gathering her clothes. You don't want to turn around, but you do anyway, scooting up slightly so that your back is resting on your pillows. She's changing already, and you try not to watch. You say that you're being polite. You know that's not the case.

Sometimes you wonder if she can tell, but things are different now. She can't read you like an open book like she used to. You like to think that majoring in drama has paid off. You fear that you're wrong. You shake those thoughts away. She'll question you if she sees even the slightest hint of your unhappiness, and you're afraid of what you'll say if she does.

Instead you get up, taking the covers with you to cover your mostly naked form. "You want something to eat before you go? Maybe some coffee?" you offer. Your voice cracks; nerves, but with the all the screaming you did last night she probably won't even question it.

"I'd love to," she says apologetically. "But I really need to get home." You nod slowly, telling her you understand even though you don't. Or more precisely, you don't _want_ to. She continues to make herself look presentable, walking over to the full body mirror hanging outside your closet to give herself a once over. "Natalie's been asking about you. She's wondering when you'll visit."

"I'm not sure. I've been busy," you lie.

"Oh," she replies with genuine disappointment. Your grip tightens over the thin material that is currently cascading over your body. It's an inadequate shield for the guilt you feel, but it's all you have. You hate lying to her, but you hate hurting her even more. The only thing you hate more is that you have no choice but to do one or the other. "Are you free this weekend? Kurt tells me that Mercedes is flying in from L.A. so he's planning a little reunion."

"Sure," you answer, hesitantly. "I should be free then," you add to give yourself an out in case change your mind (chicken out) at the last minute.

"Great! Natalie will be so happy hear that," she beams. You smile back in return as best you can. Her eyes dart to the clock. "I really should go," she says, her voice just above a whisper. "You know how my daughter can be; she'll be terrified if she wakes up and I'm not there." You give her a curt nod in understanding. You know that just as well as she does, better than anyone else. Natalie is almost like a daughter to you.

But she's not yours. And neither is Rachel.

"Bye Quinn." She leans in for a hug. You keep your arms close to you, making sure that the blanket that's covering you doesn't fall to the floor. Her arms feel good and warm. You take a moment to bathe in all things Rachel; the smell of her shampoo, the feel of her skin, even the sound of her breathing.

Because she'll be gone son. She'll pull away.

But before she does, you kiss her on the cheek.

When she pulls back, she gives you a peculiar look. But she doesn't say anything. And before you know it she's leaving, a smile on her face as she waves and asks, "See you this weekend?" You nod. God knows if you'll actually have the guts to show.

* * *

AN: This probably going to be the part where you ask me to continued.

I'll think about it.

This is intended to be a standalone one-shot, but I have already thought up a lot of background stuff in my head (I should probably write it down) which (even if I were to continue this) you may not even learn about because you, as Quinn, can only know what Quinn knows. You know?

But anyway, there could be enough stuff for a longer fic, but let me warn you that if this does continue it will not be heading towards a happy place. Not to say that it'll be a tragedy (it could be) but things will happen.

But before I even do anything that could be remotely related to this, I need to work on Faberry Week.

show.


End file.
